Is it your most delicate form

Or is it the reddest rose?

No matter how I praise you,

You stand out distinctly with your grace.

Flowers sprout in on the paths,

Where your lovely feet trod at one time,

This for sure I know now,

Your loveliness none can efface.

The monsoon clouds also pause to wonder,

As your silky tresses play upon your face,

Any poet will forget all his wit,

As you will all his dreams replace...

O my Daphne, my sweetest Daphne,

Rescue me from my languishing ways,

Show the world the power of your love,

And remould my heart which for you prays.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem was written a long time back. Found it in one of my old notebooks and posted it here on February the 7th, 2010.

View emmenay's Full Portfolio
palewingedpoetess's picture

Here one witnesses a heart drip pooling with disproportionate love. Time can not erode the intent that
fortifies the famished heart. Its the memory that simultaneously feeds and starves desire all at the same time. The wide open spaces of time's passing leave many stretches of memory lost to the caliber of just what angle on the matter is being gained. In other words, the black holes of your memories can fascinate you or collapse your very existence at a moment's fractured notice before you have even had a chance to marvel over their subtle creation.
you know who! why type it? laughs

Starward's picture

Despite myself, I find this poem immensely beautiful.